THEODORA 



A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL. 



BY 



FRANCIS HOWARD WILLIAMS. 



f Iwv/ 111882 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 






%lo 



Copyright, 1882, by J. B. Lippincott & Co. 



\ 



DEDICATORY. 



I THINK some lives there be that weave a thread 

Of God's own sunlight through the woof ol Time ; 

Whose presence permeates a wintry clime 

With summer's sense of joy; whose geneious bread 

Is cast upon the waters. Such have fed 

The deepest human hunger, and my rhyme. 

Freighted like some quaint mediaeval chime 

With Heaven's blessing, would to such be wed. 

Take, then, this slender tribute from my hand ; 

Mayhap the bud may one day break to flower; 

Yet, if not so, thy love will leap the bars 

That hedge fruition in a barren land. 

And still thy soft eyes on my life shall shower 

A light as holy as the patient stars. 




J 



THEODORA: 

A CHEISTMAS PASTOEAL. 




HIME, chime, 
Chime, chime, 
Louder and lower, 
:Now fiirther, now nearer. 

Chime, chime, 
Faster and slower, 
;N'ow fainter now clearer, 
On to eternity 
Swinging forever, 
Time, time, 
Time, time, 

"Wondrous maternity, 



Always and never 
Dying and born again, 

Chime, chime. 
Morning and eventide, 
Evening and morn again, 

Chime, chime, 
Yonthfnl at dawning, 
At snnset so old, 
Youthfnl at eventide, 
Aged at dawn. 

Ceaselessly yawning 

To swallow the beautifnl, 
Stolid as fate 
Yet as fleet as the fawn ; 

Early and late. 

For the false and the dutifid, 
Bearino; the chalice 
To lips that are cold ; 

Conquering malice 

And human malevolence, 
Spreading a pall 

Over love and benevolence. 



Hiding endeavor 
Forever, forever, 

All, all. 
With a mantle of nu)nl(l. 




IME, time, 
Time, time. 



On thy tide hearing 
The young and the daring. 

The timid and old ; 
Revealing despairing 
And pitiful faces. 
By torches that, flaring 
And flung from their places. 
Go out as a tale that is told. 
Rhyme, rhyme. 
Weave me a story 
Of sorrow and glory, — 
Of glory as golden. 
And sorrow as olden 
As time, time ; 



Make^nie a history, 
Show me a mystery, 

Rare, rare 
As a song from above 
Or a picture of Love, 

Fair, fair, 
In a setting of gold. 




HIS was the song the old clock sang, as slow 
The ancient hands seemed lovinHy to trace- 
Weird shapes and shadows from the firelight 
glow 
Athwart the numbers on the ancient face. 
Aunt Hester's chair creaked out a sleepy rhyme 
As back and forth she rocked in reaches long, 
The while her needles marked a counter-time 
To the quaint phrasing of the old clock's song. 

Snug in its disc of comfortable light. 

The lamp spoke Christmas welcome to us all, 



While oak and resinous pine gave each its mite 

To fling a ruddier halo on the wall. 
And we were five, — Aunt Hester, Dora, John, 

Faith and myself. Since childhood's hour when we 
Were full of childish games which time anon 

Chills to decorum, we had thought no tree 
Could bear its fruitage of unguessed delights 

To glad the season otherwhere than here ; 
And as our faith in genial Christmas sprites. 

And saints more genial, lessened, the good cheer 
And merry-making of the olden time 

Waned nothing. And each season had we come. 
Finding life silenter hut more sublime 

Within the atmosphere of hearth and home. 



Faith was my sister; John our cousin, far 
Removed in blood, but nearer in our love 

Than brothers oft; and Dora? Dora's star 
Had risen hid in mist; below, above. 

Where we knew not, only that it was bright, 
And she as good as fair. A mystery clave 



Unto her, and when we had sought new light 

Touching her origin, Aunt Hester gave 
But meagre answer, and with bended brow 

And lip compressed, showed how our words dis- 
turbed 
The quiet of her mind. We questioned now 

]^o more, and curiosity, once curbed. 
Grew patient of the rein. We could but find 

In Dora (Theodora was her name 
But Dora sounded tenderer,) the kind 

And loving sister, evermore the same. 

So, as we sat and kept the custom born 

Long, long ago, to watch the deep'ning night, 
And see the eve of Christmas melt to morn, 

A sense of awe commingled with delight 
Possessed our souls. And, wondrous in its tone, 

The ancient clock sang louder, then so low 
Its cadence sank that on our ears a moan 

Vibrated in a rhythmic ebb and flow : 



10 




ICK, tock, 

Tick, tock, 

There's never a soul 

That iincleth the goal 

Till over the sleeper 

The hand of the reaper 

Hath swept. 

Tick, tock, 

Tho' only a clock, 

My heart in its altar 

Hath kept 

The truth, the devotion. 

The rhythm and motion. 

The knowledge worth knowing 

Of life. 

That, ehbing and flowing 

Like tides of the ocean, 

Change never, nor falter 

In coming or going, — 

In peace or in strife. 
11 




I^D as the song liuiig trembling in the air, 
We gazed upon the quaintly carven wood 
Surmounting the clock's case, and noted there, 

Once more, the wreath of myrtle, like a hood 
Drooping across the face; for since the years 

Were dim in distance to our memory's eyes, 
1^0 Christmas came, whether or joy or tears 

Were more akin to us, than our surprise 
Found fresh food ever to find ever thus 

A new wreath of sweet myrtle, like a crown. 
Placed on the old clock's brow. But still to us 

Aunt Hester gave no answer, or to drown 
All unwished questions, put us oif with show 

Of explanation, vacant to the mind, — 
So vaguely general that our thirst to know 

The wherefore piqued us evermore to find 
l^ew form of questioning. 

Why should we ask ? 

The time was one of feast and merriment; 
She decked the clock because she found the task 



Of decking it so easy, and it lent 
^ew beauty to its polished panels, brown 

With scores of Christmases to newlv wear. 
Each year, in royal state, its royal crown. 
Why should we ask ? 

And, so met, in despair 
At length our questions ceased. Yet still full well 

We knew there was a reason in her heart. 
Which haply she should find it meet to tell 
Anon, and thus the wreath became a part 
Of our observance of the day. So now^ 

We looked upon it lovingly, while slow 

Around that crowned and venerable brow 

The melody still kept its ebb and flow : 




LOW, flow. 
Flow, flow, 
Winter and Summer, 
Autumn and Spring, 
Over the s^rasses 
They come and they go. 
Go, go. 



And every new-comer 
Is eager to bring 
A joy as he passes, 
A pledge of liis might ; 
The purple and glow 
Of the clustering masses, 
The mantle of white 
And immaculate snow, 

Snow, snow, 
The flame that discloses 
The heart of the night. 
The blossom and flower 
Of Summer, whose power 
All other surpasses. 
In love ever firmer 
Tho' fleet in his flio-ht: — 
The Summer that whispers 
" Delight !" to the roses,— 
The roses that murmur 
To Summer : '' Delio:ht !" 



14 



HEN, as we hearkened to the song, Faith's care 
For household duties, doubly deep to-night 
Bj reason of the Christmas-time, and rare 
With promise of some triumph of her might 
And skill in cookery, drew her away 

To those mysterious realms below-stairs, where 
Undreamed of odors and steams unctuous play 
In appetizing w^avelets in the air. 

John, too, found need (he always found a need 

To follow whither Faith went) once again 
To rack the cider ; (he who ran might read 

The myster}' in that) ; so, therefore, when 
The clock next sang, there were hut left we three. 

Aunt Hester, Dora and myself, to hear 
The rise and fall of its weird melody. 

So far away, yet evermore so near. 



15 




IXG, sing, 
Sing, sing, 
A beautiful boy 
Came over the flowers, 

Came over and passed 
Like a vision of joj^ 
To invisible bowers ; 

Came softh', and fast 

On the vanishing hours 

Took wins;. 



'&" 




HETHER some cadence pregnant in the ear 
Awoke a memory of vanished days, 
Or whether there was that within the clear. 
Sweet murmur of the song that touched the haze 
Of reverie about us and let down 

The bars of reticence, I know not; yet 
Upon Aunt Hester's brow the lialf-formed frown 

Had passed away, and in its stead was set. 
Bright as a star, a diadem of peace ; 



And, looking steadfastly at Dora, she 
Said softl}^ : " Patient waiting brings release 

From every fetter of necessity. 
Yon, child, have questioned oftentime to learn 

Whence you are come, and all the rest to know 
The wherefore of my actions, sometimes stern, 

Yet ever love-dictated. This brave show 
Of green at Christmas, — my care thus to grace 

The ancient clock with myrtle, and at eve 
To watch the shadow fall across its face ; — 

All this you've wondered over. By your leave 
You shall ne'er wonder more." 

And as she spoke 

I saw how Dora trembled, and the fire 
Which lived beneath her eyelids leaped and woke 

Another flame that lit her cheek, and higher. 
Was quenched where it began. Then she grew pale. 

And well I noted what a sad, sweet smile 
Aunt Hester's face wore as she told her tale. 

The ancient clock low murmuring the while. 



17 



9lttnt Hcjjtcr'^ ^tort). 




OU both remember hearing how the clam 

Which lies behind the village, storing force 
To nerve the mills in thirsty summer, calm 

But dangerous in strength, once from its course 
Swerved the quick river, and in mad career. 

As freshets from the mountains in the Spring 
Pressed from behind, swept on, till far and near 

Houses and barns lay wrecked, and everything 
In the flood's path w^as desolate. That day 

Is fixed in many memories ; in my own 
It burns an endless sorrow, though I pray 

lN"ot now an unavailing one. You've grown 
To womanhood and manhood since that time. 

But both have heard how, of the noble men 
Who offered a self-sacrifice sublime 

On the destroyer's altar, dying when 



Strong living arms were powerless to save, 

E'one nobler than my husband worked and died, 
'Nor, dying, to his race a pattern gave 

Of more divine devotion. 

When, a bride, 
I laid within his brawny hand my hand. 

And felt how firm its touch, and heard the word, 
" I, Henry, take thee, Hester," that same grand 

Power of love inefiEable that spurred 
His soul to noblest effort, shed its light 

Around me and about me, and I knew 
My husband for a hero. 

Ah, how bright 

The years were then, — ^ye golden years that drew 
Our hearts into a union closer yet. 

And gave an added holiness to life, — 
The jewel of motherhood that God had set 

Within my royal diadem of Wife ! 



Here was our home, this room our sitting-room ; 
The shy clematis hid itself as now 



And clambered at the lintel ; there, where bloom 

The potted roses on the sill and bow 
To ever}' waft of air, the roses grew 

And bowed as gently. 

Thus we lived, till came 
That awful night, when on the gale there ilew 

A cry of death, and leaping like a flame, 
The torrent sped across the fields. 

Away 

To aid in saving sprang my husband, strong 
To battle with the waters ; but the day 

Which dawned on wreck and ruin brought along 
The warrant of my doom. He had been seen, — 

My Henr}^, — doing work of half a score 
One moment in the abyss that lay between 

Mad flood and flood. I saw him nevermore ! 



Thus was I widowed ere one summer's rain 

Had taught my heart the meaning of life's storms. 

Or grief had given the power to wear a pain 
In lono; enduring silence. So the forms 



Which my great sorrow took were stern denial 
Of God's own goodness, and a stubborn mind 

To bow not to his mandate. A new trial 
Was needed, and as they who seek oft find 

In most repellent structures the sought pearl, 
So I must needs be broken yet again 

By grief to find my peace. 

Our little girl — 

Ours, for I had not dropped the title then — 
Grew paler than her wont, and ceased to play ; 

Forsook delight of sunlight and of air, 
And as some fragrant flower fades away 

At coming of the frost, so, in despair, 
I saw her slipping from me. Days to weeks 

Fled onward, weeks to months, till Winter's hold 
Was loosed on tree and shrub, and all the creeks 

Sped on again to where the fields enfold 
The shining river like a silver band 

Woven through russet tapestry. The earth 
Grew blithe in Spring, and yearning to expand 

Her inner love to love's new outer birth, 

21 



Bloom'd 'neath the kiss of sunshine into quick 

And warm maturity ; the Summer fled 
Herself as fleetly, and in bowers thick 

With her own gorgeous panoply, lay dead 
Ere we had half embraced her. Autumn came. 

Lived a brief life replete with gold and glow, 
And, ere our lips could speak her lovely name, 

Died on a bed of fallen leaves and snow. 
Then, as the days came close to Christmas-tide, 

The child whose eyes had shed the only ray 
To keep my wounded spirit from the wide. 

Tossed sea of desolation, sank away 
Ever and ever weaker ; and my moan 

I made in whispers, praying she might live 
With such hushed vehemence as they alone 

Who once have loved, and loving lost, may give 
Or understand the giving of. 

And oft 

I heard the old clock on the thread of time 
Slow telling off the beads ; and from aloft 

Where sky is wed to sky, a voice sublime 
Bore in upon me whispers sad as tears. 



A terror seized upon me, and my will, 
Stubborn till now, broke 'mid a world of fears, 

And I cried out : " Have mercy. Lord, nor fill 
This dread cup to the brim !" 

Still, still the flame 
Burned lower, and I saw a pallor chase 
The life from cheek and brow, and strange lines 
came. 
Unearthly lines in her unearthly face. 

Till one day, as in quest of Paradise, 

The sun rolled down the West, all gold and red. 
An angel put the light out in her eyes. 

And I was sitting silent with my dead. 

Ah me, ah me, 'twas twenty years agone, 

Yet seems but yesterday. Time grows so fleet 

As we grow older, and each hasting dawn 
Comes closer to the sunset. It were meet 

I pause a little, for I scarce may trust 
My heart to bide the telling of my grief, 



For hearts will sometimes falter tlio' the}- must 
Go on at last to breaking or relief. 



[Here pausing for a moment in the tale, 

Aunt Hester pressed her temples wearily, 
As though some memor}^ struggling to prevail. 

Must he thrust hack and conquered. 

Cheerily 
At the same moment Faith and John appeared 

Within the doorway, full of conscious pride 
Of duty well performed. And, as they neared 

My chair, I plucked John's sleeve and spake aside 
Of what it was that hushed our lips and led 

To this unwonted silence and repose. 
Then good Aunt Hester, taking up the thread 

Of her sad story, wove it to its close.] 

Some souls there be (blessed that such should l)e) 
That meet affliction half-way, well content 

To garner where they've sown tho' misery 
Deck out the harvest. 



Mine, tho' well I meant 
Evei^ to bow to Heaven, was never thus 

Submissive, and I railed against my fate, 
And beat my pale hands in tumultuous 

Frenzy upon the bars. Love bade me wait, 
And still I railed at Love ; and as the days 

Came to their shortest I grew wellnigh mad 
And on the eve of Christmas, as my praise 

I strove to offer, I thought on the glad. 
Gay hearts that then praised also, and I wept, 

Alas ! such bitter tears. Then I rose up. 
And would have flung the holy book I kept 

Beside me far away, for this dread cup 
Was more than I could drink. 

Yet, as I stood 

LTCsolute, the cadence of a song. 
Sung by the clock, enchained me ere I would, 

And bore my being on its tide along : 




AIT, wait, 

Pitiful fate 
Bringeth thee joy 
And the golden gate 
Stands open to Love, 
Tho' he Cometh late. 




AIT, wait, 

Sorrow nor hate 
jN'e'er shall destroy 
]N^or leave desolate. 
For God is above, 
And God is o-reat. 
Wait ! 




XD while I paused, half lost in wonder, came 
A gentle tapping at the outer door, 
And, as I opened it, the dying flame 
Of the heartli's embers leapt and seemed to soar 
In sudden exultation. 



On the sill 

Stood motionless two eliildren, one a boy 
Divinely beautiful as dreams which thrill 

Celestial sleepers with celestial joy ; 
And at his side a little girl, whose eyes 

Looked trustfully in mine. Then, as I spread 
My arms to welcome them in glad surprise. 

The girl was there, but, like a vision fled 
To lovelier realms, the boy was gone. 

The snow 

Bore tiny footprints, and as close I bent 
To mark their course, they seemed to gleam and glow. 

For each was filled with flowers, whose perfume 
lent 
To Winter all the redolence of Spring. 

I led the girl within. The voice of Fate 
Eesounded in mine ears, and lingering 

In dying echoes whispered : " God is great !" 

Then wreathing 'round the clock the flowers which 
dressed 
The earth where'er that foot divine had trod. 



I took the little wanderer to my breast, 
And called her — Theodora, Gift of God. 



Aunt Hester ceased, nor spake one other word, 

Only held forth her hand to Dora, who 
Stood motionless and rapt, as one who heard 

Some far, unfathomable song borne through 
The phalanx of the ages. O'er her brow 

The hair hung heavily, and fashioned there 
A shadow soft as sleep, that trembled now 

As trembled on her lips a silent prayer. 

I dared not speak ; there was too much of awe 

In Dora's mien. Against the ancient clock 
She leaned, and as I gazed on her, I saw 

How her slight fingers tightened at the shock 
Of each pulsation of her fluttering heart. 

Across the antique panel her white arm 
Gleamed, for her sleeve, Avorn loose, had fallen apart 

And left it bare from wrist to shoulder, warm 
With throbbing life but chaste as marble. 



Now 

The great log on the hearth, burned to the core, 
Brake suddenly, as though it would endow 

The scene with its own glow ; a mighty roar 
Came from the chimney's throat, and left and right 

The sputtering sparks leapt on the ample stone. 
And flung the crimson halo of their light 

'Round Dora's figure, standing there alone. 

Then the clock sang, in tones which seemed to roll 
From lip to lip of some angelic choir, 

The anthem of a liberated soul 

Touched with the glory of celestial fire : 




HIME, chime. 
Chime, chime, 
Linkins: to-morrow 



To seons of ages ; 
Chime, chime, 
Sponging out sorrow 



From all the marred paj2;es 

Of time, time ; 
Onward the river 
Is flowing, still flowini)^, 

Liquid as rhyme, 

Ehyme, rhyme, 
Forging a chain 
That has never an ending, 

Lost, and alone 
With eternity blending,- - 
Back to the Giver, 

And on to His throne. 
Evermore glowing 
Where myriads sing 

Peace, and the reign 
Of The Kin^. 



HEN in the silence to our ears was borne 

The stroke of midnight, and, as angels sing. 
We heard strange voices welcoming the morn. 
The morning of the birthday of The King. 




